


Shrike

by mal (malenchka)



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Amnesia, Angry Kissing, Apprentice is Sad but also Very Done, Apprentice is a Ghost, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gender-Neutral Apprentice (The Arcana), Ghost Shenanigans, Ghosts, Lucio is Fleshy Man, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, OG Garbage Lucio, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Swapped AU, Touch-Starved Ghost
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:02:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23746531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malenchka/pseuds/mal
Summary: In an odd twist of events, the Apprentice finds they’re stuck haunting Vesuvia’s most handsome and tyrannical Count. Surprisingly, things could be worse.
Relationships: Apprentice/Lucio (The Arcana), Lucio (The Arcana)/Reader, Portia Devorak/Nadia
Comments: 26
Kudos: 175





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first work! I’m no wordsmith and this was meant to be a *personal piece* for my own enjoyment, but my friends persuaded me to share. UwU I hope you’ll like it! Chapters are to be added as I finish writing and editing them.

Someone once said to you that boredom always precedes a period of great creativity. If you could only remember who it was that spewed this idiocy at you, you’d rush over to _their_ house and haunt _their_ bedchambers. Unfortunately, neither of those things seem possible, since you couldn’t remember much of anything at all, and you couldn’t leave this gaudily decorated wing of the palace for more than a few hours. 

Such a circumstance had grown very frustrating over the course of three excruciatingly long years.

“Maybe I could go introduce myself to Nadia’s newest handmaid.” A voice like creeping ivy breaks the silence around you, giving you a little bit of a shiver. It’s yours, after all, and a specter’s voice shouldn’t be anything less than chilling. “...Maybe not...”

Whatever there was to do as a ghost in a lush Vesuvian palace, you’d done it. Frighten the staff? Old news. Steal the courtier’s precious belongings? Too many times. Make rooms hot, cold and back again? It hardly entertained anymore. The last time you had any real fun was the moment you realized there was _magic_ at your disposal. Not particularly strong magic, of course. It was safe to say that spirits weren’t built to wield such things—but it was enough to interact with the world around you just a bit more than you ever could before. No one knew peace for weeks then— floating dustpans, shattered glass, exploding fireplaces. Eventually most everyone refused to step into your neck of the wing at all, leaving you plagued with boredom once more.

Presently you were in a guest room (your own self-proclaimed bedroom, actually) and lounging on a velvety, gold-trimmed chaise. Well, only technically. It was impossible for your body to really touch the furniture—but the novelty of floating about it always let you feel a little more… corporeal. In your lap floats a thick and dusty tome, stolen from the Countess’ library, and you sigh heavily before flicking through its yellow pages.

“I’ve read this one, haven’t I?” It’s well-worn, one of your favorites—a book about the magic of healing. As much fun as it was to study, putting those teachings into practice was near impossible for someone of your ilk. “I have. Damn it.” The book closes with a sharp snap and you groan almost childishly as you set it aside. For a moment you consider returning to the library, but it would be useless—you’ve likely read every book in the building.

“I just want something to do, anything…”

Anything to distract yourself from the situation. Scaring people was a cheap replacement for actual human contact, but it was the most you were ever able to garner from the living. Not to say that you hadn’t ever tried communicating with them—on the contrary you’d tried it many times, especially at first. The results, however, were not wholly positive. No one likes mysterious notes and disembodied voices. One time you’d shown yourself to a maid, in hopes that she wouldn’t spook so easily, but the poor woman quit the same day, all but sprinting off the grounds.

Needless to say, the endless isolation was beginning to wear on your mind. A feeling which is made all the more awful by how _empty_ your mind is. When you had awoken here, three years ago, all you had was your unfamiliar body and a wistful ache lingering in your chest. Everything else was a blur of halfway recollections and shuttered emotion. Occasionally, strange memories would lap at the edges of your subconscious and you’d always chase them, but every time you’re on the cusp of recollection you’re punished with a sharp pain in your head and hot tears on your cheeks.

Standing to take a turn about the room you stop short of the vast window, beyond which sprawled the expanse of Vesuvia. The afternoon sun filters through buttery curtains and you raise your hand to touch them. The fabric gives way to your fingers for a moment before slipping through you completely. A wry smile curls your lips upward.

“It’s almost cruel to be trapped here, of all places.” Beauty and luxury in every corner, in every facet of the palace, and you can’t even move the curtains properly.

A shadowy figure slips into your peripheral and you almost flinch in surprise, until you realize that it’s just your reflection in the room’s massive vanity. You draw closer to it, inspecting your peculiar state for the hundredth time. Charcoal skin, like dripping ink, adorned your wispy, translucent body. You had no hair to speak of but something akin to a crown seemed forever stuck upon your head. Once you had toyed with the idea that you were an ancient ruler of Vesuvia, and your purpose here was to exact revenge upon the present Count and Countess for their crimes against the city... 

You snicker, the sound of it like melting ice. At least the notion was wild enough to entertain you yet.

Your reflection’s gaze pierces into you with eyes that are brilliant and strange—your irises are colored like you imagined they must have been when you were alive—and your sclera glow a dreadful crimson around them. Eyes like these made for good use during nighttime haunts, and they were the only thing about your appearance that you truly liked.

A muffled shout catches your attention and you turn from the vanity immediately. The telltale sound of barking echoes down the corridor outside the bedroom and excitement bubbles up in your chest. You rush for the door and poke your head through the wood itself, just as two blurs of white whiz past in a loud frenzy. His booming voice careens through the air, just as you anticipated.

“Mercedes! Melchior! Daddy’s home—Oh no. Stop... wait! Mercedes! Melch—oomph!”

Just a ways down the hall, the provocative Count of Vesuvia is prone on the floor, toppled over onto his ass by his two borzoi dogs. If haunting the palace has taught you anything, it’s that Mercedes and Melchior are _always_ this excited to see the boorish man, and as much as you hate to admit it, it _was_ rather endearing to watch. The dogs jump on Lucio until his body is completely sprawled on the polished marble, his raucous laughter echoing in between cheerful yips. You float into the hall cautiously, sticking close to the shadows so your ghostly presence wouldn’t interrupt the heartfelt reunion.

“Urk, stop licking me—what? Don’t look at me like that, Mercy. Why are you all dirty? You two were in the gardens just now, I bet. Oh, come on….this is a new cloak, Melchiooor!” Lucio whines, his beaming face betraying any actual frustration he might have with his two excitable pups. He makes a content sound, before propping himself up on his palm and winking at his hounds, his other hand gently combing through their cloud-colored fur. You watch in slight awe. The Count’s voice is softer than usual. “Alright, alright. I get it. Next time I won’t be gone so long, m’kay?”

Light dapples in through the wide windows of the hallway and Lucio stands. The sunshine envelopes him completely, makes him look ethereal, despite that bratty pout on his face as he dusts himself off—if you had any actual breath, it would have stopped, just then. His blonde hair is loose from its usual slicked back style, pooling like silk in front of his eyes. The gold trinkets and medals on his regal clothing catch the light and sparkle almost blindingly. Shamelessly, your eyes prowl down his form—from his broad shoulders to his exposed chest, to his narrow waist... and then back up. Scolding yourself, you settle your gaze on the Count’s most interesting feature.

His metallic left arm, sharp and clawed, its gold gleams proudly in the sun, humming with something _more_ —something almost magical. Lucio props it against his cocked hip, the heavy metal wrinkling the fine fabric he wore. Perhaps if you were a court magician, you’d have managed to prod him into letting you examine the prosthetic…

Alas, you were just a ghost spying on the tyrant ruler of a city, trying to convince yourself that you’re only doing so out of sheer boredom and not because you find him disgustingly attractive.

Lucio straightens out his white suit coat, then _tsks_ affectionately down at Mercedes and Melchior. They whine and jump up to reach for him anyway, and he is all laughter and adoring smiles. You chuckle quietly despite yourself. Truthfully, the sight of him like this always enamors you. You could swear he’s secretly some long lost hero or knight...

Well, until he opens his mouth.

As much as you found Lucio extremely dashing and beautiful, you also found him utterly incorrigible. It didn’t take long before you discovered that this was a sentiment that everyone in the palace (and maybe the whole of Vesuvia?) shared. The Countess included. Most days Nadia steered completely clear of the Count, only ever enduring his company when it was absolutely necessary. After overhearing several thinly veiled insults and heated ‘debates’ between the two, it became obvious to you exactly _why_ they had separate living quarters. They couldn’t be more ill-suited to each other, and you often wondered why they had even married in the first place. 

Unfortunately, this meant Lucio had his own veritable ‘party wing’, with almost complete free reign. There was always a ruckus. Hardly a day went by when a ball or a brunch or a dinner party wasn’t being hosted. The noise of it all plagued you, because although you weren’t well acquainted with your sense of touch, your hearing was impeccable. Even so, the festivities were bearable enough, you could live with them. What truly disturbed you were the Count’s...nightly endeavors. It wasn’t unusual for him to take on many lovers—sometimes more than one at a time—and you heard _everything._

Needless to say you were always a little resentful for it. It became impossible to read during the night, and as a specter you had no real need for sleep. It bothered you so much that you tortured the man with ‘hauntings’ every chance you could find. 

Except for chances like these when he was actually just a little teensy, weensy bit bearable. He was endearing with his pets, yes—and that’s _all_ you like about the man.

Lucio snickers as his dogs run circles around him. However, as soon as the Count begins his promises of dinner, Mercedes and Melchior both halt their playing and zoom past him in a sort of spontaneous race for the mess hall. Both disappear at the end of the corridor, excited yips fading off into the distance. You shrink back and away from Lucio, as he’s always quick to follow them.

Hastily, you call forth your magic and disappear from sight. Cloaking your appearance was one of your easier party tricks, an essential skill for life as a palace specter.

Despite that, Lucio stops short of you, frozen in place. His silver eyes narrow, then dart to where you’re standing. An impossible chill tingles through your incorporeal form. Oh no. Had you forgotten to cloak your eyes? You press back, away from him, towards the door leading into your bedroom, ready to flee, but his voice is loud and shocks you so much that you forget to move.

“I know you’re here, _ghost._ ” The Count’s sneer is repulsed, angry, but one look at his face and you see the nervous sweat beading on his brow. You’ve scared him enough times to know that he’s a little unnerved. Excitement bubbles in your chest and you find yourself moving closer to him. “Leave! Or you’ll regret it, you wretch. I’ll... I’ll...” 

Lucio’s brows furrow, the gears in his head visibly turning with the conundrum of punishing someone who was already dead. You have never bothered speaking to the Count before, his entire disposition being far too off-putting to even fathom it, but it was irresistible now that he had finally acknowledged your presence. Your voice leaves you like an amused serpent.

“You’ll... exorcise me? That might work, actually.”

Clearly not expecting an answer, Lucio gasps sharply and backpedals so fast you think he might fall back down on the ground. His eyes dart about the space, searching for where your eerie voice came from. 

“S...so you _are_ here! I knew it! Noddy didn’t believe me but—” Recovering quickly from his shock, Lucio huffs loudly and casually smooths back his golden locks. A sadistic grin tugs at the corners of his lips. “I can find a way to get rid of you, you know. Especially after all the ways you’ve _tormented_ me.” His tone is venomous as he points an accusatory finger at where he presumes you are. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about _that._ ”

 _What a threat!_ Not at all intimidated, you float over to his left side and lean close to his ear, taking on a comically ghostly wail as you speak.

“Ohhh… I am the murdered magician! Back to haunt the tyrant Coouunt! You! You killed me, Lucioooo.”

“Wh—No, I didn’t!” His retort is a near shout, so loud that you flinch. You don’t catch how he subtly jolts towards his right, away from your disembodied voice.

“You did… Murderer!” It most likely wasn’t true… but then again you couldn’t rule out the possibility.

“No, I...” The Count scratches at his blonde hair, frowning, then plasters an impish smile onto his face as he chuckles darkly. “I might have. I can’t be expected to remember every peasant I've sent to the gallows. What do you want me to do? Apologize?” He snorts loudly, then glances up and down the hall before growling vehemently at your general direction. “I should have you killed again for ruining my new boots last week, you miserable little—“

The rest of Lucio’s tirade falls on deaf ears as you cackle gleefully, the sound of it like billowing mist filling the corridor. _So he HAD noticed the boots!_ In your opinion, they looked better with the candle wax covering up that ridiculous shade of yellow? Green? Whatever it was, it was awful. When you recollect yourself and wipe the tears from your eyes Lucio is pouting childishly, his arms crossed.

“—they were suede! And the gold buckles—“

Unable to help it, you let out another breathless wheeze of laughter—only to be cut off by the loud slap of hard leather on marble. Lucio stomps again, for good measure, and he is absolutely seething. If looks could kill…

When he steps forward you know that if you had any physicality at all the Count would have throttled you by now.

“Look, _ghost_. The masquerade for _yours truly—_ “ His gauntleted metal hand rests against his own chest, and he looks pleased to be mentioning himself again, but that derisive tone never subsides, “—is coming up in _two weeks._ And I can’t have you going around ruining it for me!”

Realization dawns on you. _The masquerade_. 

Truly the event was a fine spectacle. A bonafide Vesuvian tradition, one that Lucio himself put into place—because who wouldn’t make a holiday out one’s own birthdate? Despite the selfish intentions of their Count, the whole of the city would flock to the palace to partake in a litany of festivities. It went on for not one night, but _days_ and in the past you’ve marveled at how resilient hungover Vesuvians could be to party for so long.

Moroseness clouds your chest. For you, the masquerade marked the passing of another year in this hellish state. And you couldn’t even taste the wine.

Lucio must have taken your silence for fear or submission, because he's gone on talking.

“Since I can’t get rid of you fast enough, we’ll make a deal. You stay out of my damn way, stop all of this…spooky shit, and I’ll make it worth your while.” The Count tries for an enticing smile, and if he could see your expression he would have been insulted. “What do ghosts even want? Whatever it is, I can get it. I have friends all over, you know. I’m the _Count of Vesuvia._ ” His gaze is slimy now, dripping with that ego of his.

“So I’ve heard.” You scoff, and offer him nothing else. His proposition seems ridiculous. What could he ever give you?

Surprisingly, he is beaming now, straightening out his coat and squaring his broad shoulders. Lucio’s handsome figure would have made you swoon a thousand times over during this interaction... if it weren’t for that constant air of pompousness that surrounds him. “My reputation precedes me. Even the dead know who I am.”

“Hard not to know when you don’t shut up about yourself. You might be your biggest fan.” Despite your heated dig he keeps smirking and you grow irritated. Anger rolls off you in a wave of involuntary magic, sending a breeze of freezing air to wrap itself around the smug Count. _Oops._

“H-Hey! Fuck, that’s cold.” Lucio shudders but doesn’t really falter. Actually, he seems to stand straighter if anything. Grunting, you decide to put a little more ‘oomph’ into that accidental pulse of magic. He only looks more steeled, angry, and barely shivering, as if he were a twitch away from finding a sword and fighting you. 

“Are _you_ doing that? Stop it now! I hate it!”

“No.”

“...No? No?!”

It is extremely hard to hold in your laughter at his immediately shocked expression, but you succeed. Unfortunately, your magic subsides with your mirth and dissolves the shawl of bitter cold you’d summoned. The Count huffs, no doubt assuming you paid heed to his demands, muttering things like _‘thought so’_ and _‘that’s right’_. 

A tired sigh like creaking wood escapes you. “There’s nothing you can offer. I have no need for money or riches, Count.”

A beat passes before he _tsks_ and crosses his arms. “ _Everyone_ has a price. Come on, hurry and name it. I don’t have all day.” 

There were only two surefire things you wanted—needed: either to die (really die this time) or to find some way to revive yourself. The latter was more preferable… but if it turned out to be truly impossible then you’d rather grant yourself a modicum of peace than stay in this exhausting state of being.

When you don’t answer right away, Lucio groans impatiently and then shimmies away from the darkened corner of the hall, back into the sunshine that’s pouring through the windows. It seems to warm him significantly and he hums low in his throat. Something like envy swirls in your chest for a moment. _What does that feel like… I can’t remember…_

An idea strikes you so forcefully that you nearly gasp. Thoughts racing, you almost don’t notice when Lucio looks right at you, just barely meeting your gaze—although you’re definitely still cloaked. It’s vaguely unnerving, and the expression on his face is suspicious. His tone is demanding when next he speaks, but that’s nothing strange. What’s peculiar is the curiosity in his eyes. “I can’t see you and it’s annoying me. Show yourself.”

“You’re not _supposed_ to see me.” If only disembodied voices could roll their eyes.

His displeasure is palpable. “ _Show. Yourself._ I can’t do business with someone I can’t see.”

Later you’ll convince yourself that the reason you complied was because you wanted to strike this deal, not because of the niggling loneliness in your belly, or the hopefulness in your chest. Later you’ll claim you never had this silly, stupid infatuation.

“Fine. Don’t soil yourself, though, I’d hate for the maids to have to clean _that_ up.” 

“ _What_?!” He looks appalled. “Who do you take me for? I’ve defeated hideous monsters, bloodthirsty demons, ancient wyrms! I’d never—” Whatever he wanted to say died in his throat. 

Removing your cloak was like slipping a blanket from over your head, quick and revealing. In the shadows your form was especially imposing—if Lucio’s reaction was anything to go by. Your gaze roams the planes of his handsome face, studying his expression intensely. He only swallows, throat bobbing as he examines you with those critical eyes. The silence is stifling and you have half a mind to simply run away or hide. Maybe both. Instead you clear your throat.

“Well?”

His nose wrinkles. “Wow, you look uh… really gross.” 

Embarrassment wells up in you and it must have shown because Lucio sneers evilly. You can say nothing as shame grips your heart. Heat prickles your eyes and you panic—you were not going to cry in front of him, nononono.

Later you’ll wonder why you expected kindness from a man like this.

“Step into the light.” His request is more like a taunt, laced with amusement and morbid curiosity.

A dam breaks in your chest, anger gushing from it like lava, and you rush forward, right into the sunlight, right next to this infuriatingly snobby Count. Your translucent skin glistens like dew in the golden sun, dripping like melting chocolate, and you grin something awful at him. There’s a challenge in your eyes and a desire in your being that you’d not known the likes of until now. 

“You know what? I think I’ll take that deal.” 

Lucio’s disgusted expression (he’d been gawking at your body, certainly) ebbed away and he crossed his arms, smirking like the cat that got the cream. “Obviously, like you have any better options. Now for the last time, _what_ do you _want_?”

“Your blood.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Apprentice finds something. Lucio has a fit.

This should work.

“My _what?”_

That is to say, you’ve read book after book about beings stuck in the ‘in-between’, such as yourself, and they’ve all stated, without a doubt, that this should work.

_“_ You heard me.” Smirking impishly, you shrug, body shimmering as you move. “Blood, your blood. I want it. Lest I ruin your _precious_ masquerade.”

Lucio scowls, stepping away from you as if you had a knife hidden somewhere, at the ready. “Ew. No! No, that’s creepy and gross and I’m _not_ doing that. What else? What else do you want? There must be something.” His brow is twitching and you snort loudly before placing your finger on your chin and taking on a thoughtful appearance.

“Hmm… No, there’s nothing else. I suppose that’s it then. No deal.” You bend at the waist in a ridiculously low bow before straightening and cloaking yourself once more. Blonde hair wisps about the Count’s head as he attempts to relocate you by the sound of your voice. “It was an absolute pleasure to meet you, Lucio. I shall see you tonight to ruin the rest of your suede boots.”

A beat passes, then another and then an angry roar from the frazzled Count echoes all the way down the hall and back.

“Fine! You asked for it, you stupid, _HIDEOUS_ ghost. I’ll get rid of you, I’ll find a way. You’re as good as dead, do you hear me??? Hello!?!”

You stare at Lucio. He looks so distraught, it’s impossible not to grin.

“Ghost??? Answer my death threats, you little piece of—!”

Slapping a hand over your mouth to stifle the cackle that was building in your throat, you summon a bit of your magic and shutter all of the windows in the hall. It’s pitch black in a flash, and Lucio yelps like a child in the dark.

“Very well.” Your whisper curls around him like smoke, and this time you do laugh, though it sounds garbled and mean. “Good luck trying to kill me twice. But if you change your mind… my offer stands, _Count_.”

Deciding that your performance was sufficiently dramatic, you release the shutters and make your leave, but not before sparing a glance at Lucio’s ashen face.

It serves him right.

  
  
  
It is your expectation that the rest of your afternoon passes in relative peace—after all there was a bit of research to do. You take a liberal stroll to the library to return your book, then pluck a few from the higher shelves until you find the one you need: _Spirits and Souls._ The book’s spine is worn and well creased, the indigo leather of the cover weathered with age. Another favorite.

The book slaps loudly onto an oak desk just below the shelf you’d grabbed it from. Wincing a bit (it was always difficult for you to levitate heavier objects, much to your chagrin) you gently ‘rub’ the old book with your palm in apology before settling down to read.

“Right. If I remember correctly this spell is…” Dusty pages flutter as though there was a sudden gust of wind in the library. You stop your magic when you find what you’re looking for. “...here. I’ll need myself. And my magic. Easy. ...Well, hopefully. A willing participant to provide the uh… the tether—blood in this case. And…Oh.”

You pause and stare at the yellowed page. On it, tiny inked words detailed how to cast a rather simple spell, one to alter the appearance of a specter. Your heart sinks with dread as you read a step you had forgotten until now. No wonder you hadn’t bothered to remember it completely.

_‘To achieve proper transfiguration one must have a focal point, something of the being’s previous life to tie it to the realm of the living. Any trinket or bauble will suffice, but data indicates a correlation between the emotional attachment to said item and the intensity of the spell.’_

The page crinkles as you groan in defeat. The blood was one thing—you weren’t so selfish to hurt someone in the palace for your own gain… which is why this had seemed a perfect idea when the Count originally offered you anything he could give. But the spell won’t work without something physical from when you were alive, and you have nothing of the sort...at least not to your knowledge.

You rub your face and weigh your options.

“I suppose I could ask him for…new books? Tch, he’ll probably laugh at me. Or... maybe he really _can_ find a way to exorcise me.” For all the knowledge _Spirits and Souls_ held, it did not detail a way to remove spirits permanently. It seemed that type of magic varied on a case-by-case basis.

And despite your resolve, you weren’t sure if you were ready to learn that particular spell or ritual in the first place. You bite your lip. “I-It’d be… a little like offing myself, wouldn’t it? I...” The empty library offers your shaky words nothing but silence, as it was wont to do.

But the silence breaks.

“Milady! If I had known you’d be inviting guests today I’d have prepared something! Should I go fetch some tea?”

_Huh?_

There’s a nervous voice outside the library— a woman’s, sweet and kind. You blink in bewilderment as the complicated locks on the library door start unlocking, each making a sonorous click as they go. _Who would even come here at this hour?_ As surprised as you are, curiosity eats at you. The spot you were in was well-shielded by bookshelves, but you cloak yourself anyway and shrink further into the little cranny. If your sharp hearing was good for anything, it would be eavesdropping.

“There’s no need for it, Portia. You see, my guests would rather you join us.” That’s unmistakably the Countess’ musical and sultry tone. She’s speaking with a type of fondness you’re not used to hearing from her. But Portia? Is she the new handmaiden, maybe? Two more clicks pierce the dusty quiet. You always wondered why these old books warranted such protective measures.

Portia sounds confused, albeit still nervous. “Huh? They want _me_ to join? M-Milady I couldn’t impose! Plus, I have way too much to do today. The head chef, he needs me in the kitchens tonight to go over some basic things and I—ack!” Something, or rather someone, seems to ram right into Portia with an audible thud. The clicking from the locks are abruptly cut.

“Pasha! It is good to see you, my dear sister. How long has it been? Years? _Decades_?” The newcomer sounds absolutely overjoyed, even tearful. He begins sniffling and you can’t help but snort quietly at the overdone dramatics. “You’ve grown so much!” 

Portia seems to only be able to stammer in surprise. “Ilya—I mean, Julian…! You—“ She huffs impatiently. “Ugh, will you let go of me already? And stop crying, I saw you this morning!”

Nadia’s soft laughter drifts into the air like wind chimes. Whoever the siblings are to her, it’s obvious this isn’t the first time she’s entertained their company. “Good evening, Doctor Devorak. I trust the carriage ride was prompt and comfortable?”

“Countess! Good evening—and yes it was, thank you, your driver even gave me a few peanuts. As a treat—OW! Ouch ouch, Pasha! That’s my ear!”

Portia’s whisper is quiet, but you can still hear her, “I thought I told you no visits during my first week? Why didn’t you tell me about this?” The clicks resume after a moment. You peek around the bookshelf in anticipation. 

Julian, or rather Doctor Devorak, makes a wounded gasp. “You see how I’m treated, Countess?” Nadia only snickers softly in response. “For shame, Pasha. I work here too, you know.”

“Yes, duh, but not every _day._ And you promised!” 

“...So I did. Well, Nadia I shall take my leave.” Julian’s voice is full of woe and regret. “I must uphold my word and the city’s canals will have to make do without me.”

“I see. What a shame, Doctor, I was truly in need of your input.”

Their teasing makes even you chuckle in your dark hiding spot. Portia seems to be fumbling with the lock, because there’s another pause in the clicking. “O-oh…? Is that what all this is about?”

“Surely you didn’t think this was purely a pleasure event, dear Portia?” Nadia’s using _that_ tone, the one that’s altogether amused and teasing, and you can practically see the handmaid’s flustering.

“N-no! I uhm, well…”

She’s saved, however, when _another_ voice breaks into the conversation. You frown.

“What’s this about pleasure events, Nadi? Are we hanging up streamers today in lieu of saving the flooded district?” This person’s voice is like birdsong, yet still deep and enigmatic. Hearing it felt like a summer breeze. You feel flush with sudden warmth and vague recognition. Almost adamantly, you shake your head. No, there was no way you could know them.

Right?

There’s a gleeful chorus of “Asra!” from the three, what sounds like hugs being exchanged and then the clicking returns. Finally, the heavy doors are slid open with a loud, echoing _chlunk_ and the group files in.

You nearly choke.

_Why is everyone in this palace so damn attractive?_

You’re entranced, like the first time you saw Lucio at Nadia’s side, except the three accompanying the Countess today aren’t earning her withering glare. Portia—who is definitely the new handmaiden, judging by her palace staff uniform—is smiling widely as she leads, her generous hips swaying to and fro, fiery curls bouncing with every step. A petite little thing, her big blue eyes speak something of mischief and playful anger whenever she looks at the man next to her. That man… Julian? He could be her twin were it not for his excessive height. You eye his strange eyepatch and the odd, all-black uniform that hugged his lithe frame. Wild auburn hair clashes with his pale skin and tired eyes—yet these do nothing to diminish the dangerous curl of his smile and the spring in his step astride his sister.

Behind them, Nadia is ever graceful, her bronze skin wrapped in fine satin and sheer pastel-colored fabrics. You always loved watching her move, that purple cascade of her hair flowing more prettily than any of the clothes she’s ever dressed in. She’s murmuring something to the person next to her… Asra, was it?

Pain drums low in your head, but you ignore it. Asra’s messy white hair flutters with every step he takes. His worn clothing, his sun-kissed skin, his gait—there’s an air about him, like he’s returned from traveling miles and miles away. As he gazes up at the Countess with affection you can make out a distinct smile that seems far too familiar—but… you don’t recognize him.

So then why does it hurt to look at him too long?

Thankfully, you can make out what Nadia is saying. Her melodic voice is hushed and worried. “Asra… as you know, dear friend, the masquerade is nearly upon us. I must apologize for asking you to come here at such a time, and so suddenly but—“

Asra holds up a hand. Something tells you very few people in this world have license to simply cut off the Countess as she’s speaking. “It’s no trouble. Really. It’s been… years.” He reaches for Nadia’s hand and squeezes it gently. She doesn’t shirk away from his touch, like she does Lucio’s. Instead, Nadia breathes a sigh of relief and squeezes Asra’s hand in between her own. You lean forward to get a better look.

There’s a movement between them and your brows shoot up as a lavender snake emerges from Asra’s sleeve. It slithers around Nadia’s arm playfully, and she gasps. Looking up at her, the snake’s head tilts cutely and you could swear you hear it saying ‘ _Hello!’_. Asra tips his head back and laughs. The sound ricochets around in your head emptily. “See, even Faust agrees. She missed you.”

The Countess giggles as she pets the snake with her index finger, and you think it’s the most at peace you’ve ever seen her. “And I her! Asra… Faust. Thank you. And if you two are _ever_ uncomfortable with being here, with anything—just let me know. I shall arrange everything you need. You have my word.”

Asra smiles with such warmth at the Countess that you have to put a hand against your temple. “I appreciate it, Nadi... but I won’t leave. I know the court has given you grievances about this project for months. They finally had no reason to say no, hm?”

“Tch. I got it by on a _technicality_. Politics, Asra, promise me you’ll never get involved.” Nadia lets go of him to pinch the bridge of her nose. Asra simply laughs and pats her back comfortingly, his snake curling back around his arm again and up his shoulder. Faust settles herself on his neck. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Portia, who had been bickering with Julian over clearing the center-most and largest table in the library, finally notices the two, her eyes wide with alarm. “Oi! What are you doing to stress milady, Asra?” 

“Nothing at all.” He holds his hands up innocently, throwing a decidedly knowing and sly smile at the petite handmaid. Julian, one arm full of books, leans down to mutter in Portia’s ear, covering his mouth with his hand for discretion—entirely for show, apparently, since his voice is more than loud enough for the whole room to hear.

“These magic types, they always have some sort of trick up their sleeve. Don’t trust him, Pasha! For all you know he’s probably cursed the Countess to sleep for all eternity.”

Frowning, Portia whirls on Julian and bonks him on the head. He yelps in alarm and she looks at him incredulously, “Quiet before I ask him to do that to you, too.”

Nadia and Asra chortle in unison and the group’s happy aura draws them close—they all settle at the center table, unloading their bags, getting comfortable. Soon enough, unrolled scrolls are littering the table’s entire surface, and after squinting at them a few times, you find they’re all blueprints filled with the Countess’ cursive and Julian’s chicken-scratch. Portia dutifully leaves and returns with hot tea, as well as cookies, and the four coalesce into a seemingly familiar workflow, only interrupted by one or two bouts of laughter. You’ve long since settled in to watch with amusement, stifling a laugh or two whenever Faust slithered up the doctor’s wiry limbs or when Asra subtly teased the handmaid about her apparent ‘quickness’ in acclimating to palace life.

The way they mesh together, so happy and content, creates a blanket of serene warmth about the whole room. It reaches you.

Longing strikes your heart, a heavy rock in your throat. You wonder if you had anyone like this, before. Someone to laugh with, a person who made you smile while you worked. You look down at your hands and think that maybe, if you met them again, you might remember...

As your thoughts drift, _Spirits and Souls_ catches your eye from its place on the small desk. A wry, hopeless feeling floods your chest. Even if you could accomplish this spell, what difference would it make? Sure, you’d look like yourself, might recognize yourself, as you had hoped, but what would it matter? You’d still be stuck here. You’d still be alone.

A whispered thought enters your mind. It’s snarling and bitter and vindictive.

_You’ll never have this._

Tears sting your eyes, finally, but you hastily wipe them away. It’s about time you left the library.

“How about a break?” Asra’s voice wafts through the air, sure and confident. Something about it makes your chest ache more than it already is. You listen in only half-heartedly whilst you try to discreetly reshelve your spellbook.

“A break? But… we’re _so_ close to a solution for South End’s drainage…..maybe if we…” Julian mutters, his brows scrunched from deep concentration as he scribbles on the parchment strewn in front of him. Asra reaches over the table and yanks the inky quill from Julian’s hand. “Wha— Hey!”

“Oooh, yes, count me in! What did you have in mind? Charades? Poker?” Portia leans forward, elbows on the table and eyes full of excitement. Julian pouts from his spot next to her, his eyes skirting away from Asra purposefully.

He only winks at them and rummages around in his bag. “Nothing so mundane.” Faust slithers from her spot on Asra’s shoulders, down his arm and into his bag. Quizzically, her owner looks down at her tail, which was now halfway out of his satchel, “Hm? Taking a nap, Faust?”

You can almost hear the snake reply with a tiny and adorable ‘ _Yes!’_

“I believe we’ll be getting a rare treat today, won't we, Doctor?” Nadia sets down her own quill then, before gently patting the back of Julian’s hand. He still looks a little put out, but seems to perk up immediately at her touch. The gangly man flashes her a toothy grin. 

“Indeed. Been a while since we got one of these, huh? Tell us, Asra, what have the cards got to say. ...All good things, I hope.” The doctor’s tone is apprehensive, almost nervous.

There’s a bell chime in your spine. Something akin to an internal alarm— cards…? You look at Asra again and catch sight of something in his hand.

It’s a deck of cards.

Not just any cards—a tarot deck. As you stare, your body shivers. Then, before you can even question it, a sharp pain slices through your head, as if someone had begun sawing you in half. You hear Asra run his thumb against the edge of the cards, flicking them quickly, and the sound elicits a visceral squeezing in your chest. You nearly cry out. Whatever the group is saying you can hardly hear it anymore.

It’s unbelievable, yet you know it to be true. You remember that deck. You know those warm-looking hands; you know the sight of those golden-edged cards in Asra’s palms so well, you _know_ you must have seen it a hundred times before.

The halfway recollection only makes your sudden torment worsen and you find that you’re hissing between your teeth from the pain—out loud. Panic seizes you. 

“Wh...what is that noise?”

“What noise?” The room goes quiet.

“That! That small noise—Oh, it’s stopped.”

“Maybe it was Faust, Ilya.”

“No, no. It certainly sounded… different.”

“Hold on, where _is_ Faust? She was just in my bag...”

“Look, Asra, there she is! Where is she going?”

Wooden chairs creak as someone stands and you hear them approach your side of the library. The pain is excruciating and you can feel your cloak slipping, your magic subsiding. You wrench open one of your watery eyes to look down at your body, and even that small movement slices a knife through your head. Dread fills you—your torso is partially visible.

Through your pain, you see a serpentine shape curling through the bookshelf that hides you—it’s lavender. Asra’s snake slithers towards you, her scales near iridescent in the library's lowlight. Your panic comes to a head in the pit of your stomach. Can she see you? Faust curls close to your feet, her snoot bumps against your foot once before slipping through it completely.

_‘Friend!’_

She could definitely see you.

“Faust…? Did you find something?” Asra calls.

‘ _Yes. Friend!’_

You attempt to shake your head at Faust, but you just barely manage a tiny shivering movement. The serpent only tilts her noggin and looks at you in confusion. 

‘ _Show!’_ Faust’s voice is endearing and small in your mind, and you would have marveled at how you were communicating with a _snake,_ had you not been in such intense agony.

“What… kind of friend are they, Faust?”

_…I need to leave!_

The footsteps have grown louder. They’re close and you chance a glance— Asra is on the other side of the bookshelf you’re hiding behind. He’s squinting over a row of books, eyeing the space right above your head. The last of your magic saps away from you and you can see your body clearly.

“Is someone here?” Asra’s whisper is not frightened in the least, much to your latent surprise. If anything he sounds cautiously hopeful... All you can do is shrink in on yourself, and pray to the powers that be that he won’t see your crouched form.

Miraculously, as if you had personally summoned him, the library doors slammed open with a deafening crash. Everyone gasps in surprise, Asra included, and you breathe a sigh of relief as soon as that familiar, awful whining fills the entire room.

“Noddy! Noddy, I told you! I was right, I was right all along and— ...what the hell is this? ...Jules? Asra?”

The Count storms into the library, his heels clacking on the stone floor, face screwed up in a whirlwind of emotion. Mostly though, he just looks like a spoiled child that hasn’t gotten his way. Asra has long abandoned the bookshelf, his attention now completely on the Count—though you can’t see his expression there’s an immediate sourness in the air surrounding him… and everyone else? You suppose it’s to be expected, whenever Lucio is involved, but the tension seems to run a bit deeper than that.

Nadia is the first to regard him, her brows pinched and nose wrinkling. “Lucio. I thought I made it clear I was not to be disturbed.”

Sweat beads on Lucio’s forehead as he rubs the back of his neck. If he noticed that Nadia hadn’t answered his question then he made no mention of it. The rest of the room is just as quiet on the matter. “You did, but…” Indignation flutters across his features and he folds his arms, “I was just _threatened_! I think this qualifies as an emergency!”

Slowly, the pain in your head eases and you feel your magic steep back into you. Letting out a shuddering breath, you glance down at Faust, still at your feet. She blinks once, twice, then flicks her tongue at your leg. You give her a small smile and carefully tap her nose. Your finger only moves her so much, but she brightens immediately—for a snake. With that, she is satisfied, and slithers away. You peer through the shelves and spy her curling up Asra’s leg protectively.

It’s an effort to stand up straight, but you manage and immediately search the room, eyes settling on and roaming over Lucio’s incensed form. Was he upset… about you?

Uselessly, you attempt to shake the smug pride blooming in your chest—really, you should leave. In fact, you could tell that soon you would _have_ to leave, that magnetic pull back to the Count’s wing never let you stray for longer than an hour or two. Besides, you were inches away from being spotted mere moments ago…

Then again, you’ve just made a ridiculous discovery, and you should focus on whatever _that_ meant.

You shoot a furtive glance to the center table, where Julian and Portia are still sitting, gawking at the Count and Countess as they spoke—that mysterious deck of tarot cards lays forgotten amongst blueprint scrolls. Did you know Asra? When you look at his face you can’t remember anything—yet those cards, you know them to be his, without a doubt. So then…

“What are you implying? Someone threatened to kill you? Truly?” The Countess almost sounds concerned, but you pick up on the detachment in her voice. Lucio throws his hands up in the air impatiently. 

“What? No! Aren’t you listening? Noddy, this ghost thing— _whatever it is—_ if I don’t do what it wants, it’s going to _ruin_ the masquerade. ... And all of my new boots from Drakr!” Lucio’s quivering lip is almost too much, and if you weren’t sore from that all that bodily strain you’d have laughed.

Nadia has no such amusements; her look of disdain could curdle milk.

The Count pulls at his blonde locks in frustration. “What? What is it? You _still_ don’t believe me? I _saw_ it, Nadia and it’s—”

“I heard you the first time. Let me get this straight. You interrupted a very important meeting I’ve had scheduled for _weeks_ … because a _ghost_ told you they’d destroy your shoes.” If the Countess’ glare could kill, Lucio would be dead several times over. Perhaps purposefully, he seems blissfully unaware of Nadia’s smoldering wrath.

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been saying! Finally. You understand now, right? It’s awful, isn’t it?” Lucio looks frantically about the room, his silver eyes darting to each of their bewildered faces. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, he pouts and spins around to face Asra—who has been entirely too silent.

“Asra, you’ll help me, right? Of course you will. We go way back. I don’t know what Noddy has you doing but _whatever_ it is can wait.” That same grin Lucio gave you when he offered you his deal is back full force. Asra‘s deadpan stare doesn’t budge. Lucio steps closer. “Who else can get rid of a ghost? I need a magician, Asra—you can kill it or something.”

_He’s a magician?_ Now that you thought about it, it would explain much about the mysterious aura surrounding him, and it would explain why he had a tarot deck in the first place. The question that’s been burning in the back of your mind floats up to the forefront of your thoughts. _I don’t remember him, not entirely… But does he know who I am?_

A sudden realization strikes you. Asra might have been your fortune teller for all you knew—but he had to have shown you those cards when you were _alive_. Elation fills your chest. If you were going to attempt to talk to the magician at _all,_ you certainly weren’t going to do it as a gooey, amorphous shade with no name and no memories.

You can’t help your excitement. If you could get that deck, and if you could do this spell, you’d look like yourself. Asra, and maybe even others, would recognize you. Hopefully you would too. 

It was worth a try.

“Right, that makes sense. I’ll just kill someone who’s already dead.”

The sarcasm flies over the Count’s head and you find his look of astonished wonder almost endearing, “Perfect! You can do that, right?”

Someone snorts. Portia slaps a hand over her mouth as Lucio’s attention snaps to her. He squints at her small form with contempt and she’s wide-eyed for a mere second before rising from her seat, cheeks flush with anger. Julian, though he looks far paler than before the Count’s sudden entrance, clears his throat loudly and grabs his sister’s elbow in his gloved hand. Muttering something to her, he gently pulls her back down into her chair. You could nearly see the heat steaming from the handmaid’s ears, but she obliges without a word edgewise.

The thick tension is cut once Asra speaks up again. Ignoring Lucio entirely, the magician faces Nadia, arms crossed and eyes distant. Faust spares one more look at the group and hastily hides in Asra’s robes, her tail disappearing under the fabric of his sleeve. It’s not surprising that he looks as if he would rather be anywhere but here.

“Nadi, as much as I’d like to stay and converse some more I think I’ll retire to my rooms for the evening.”

_Ouch._ You see Lucio’s back go ramrod straight and an embarrassed blush dusts the bridge of his nose. “Wait—“

“Of course. Forgive me, Asra, I know the road here was long. I will have your dinner sent up to you as well.” The Countess looks over to where Portia sat, but the tiny redhead is already on her feet once more, rounding the center table and smiling pointedly at Asra. All her previous anger seems to have melted away.

“This way, Asra! I’m told milady always picks the room with the most lovely view for you.” Her messy bun bobs as she leads him out of the library. Asra’s robes swirl behind him and he follows her wordlessly, and without another glance back.

You eye the messy table once more. The deck is still there.

Nadia spares Lucio a look before turning away from him as well. She faces Julian with a soft smile, reaching over the center table to roll up scrolls in her arms. The doctor gasps loudly and hops up to his feet to help her, his ears reddening as he slides the blueprints into their protective leather sleeves. Nadia chuckles amusedly at him.

“Doctor, thank you for all your help. Shall we get back to it tomorrow?”

“I—uh, yes! I mean, of course, Countess. You can count on me.” Julian preens a bit and grins boyishly. “As soon as my last patient is out of the clinic tomorrow I’ll be on my way.”

“Perfect.” 

The deck. Nadia and Julian might see it, and you should try and grab it while they’re cleaning up, but your attention is on something else. Namely, the stupidly sad expression on Lucio’s face.

He’s crestfallen, shoulders slumped and bottom lip jutted out in an almost comical way. However silly he may appear to be, pouting like this, you _do_ see something more in his downcast gaze. He’s hurt.

You surmise that it’s due to the way he’s been entirely dismissed by everyone in the room—and you feel as though you _shouldn’t_ feel sorry for him. It’s ridiculous, after all. If anyone deserves to be ignored, it’s likely this insufferable man...but…

Groaning internally, you summon your magic. Heat prickles your cheeks. The sweet feeling of euphoric completion when you’ve finished a particularly good novel flows into the swell of your spell, and you quickly shove it at the Count.

Lucio jolts. His silver eyes go wide and he’s looking around, mouth agape, his velvet cape swishing about as he moves. For once he doesn’t look angry, condescending or upset—just… surprised. 

Unable to look at him any longer you hide your heated face in your palms. The deck. You need the tarot deck.

The Countess and Julian murmur to each other as they pass dumbstruck Lucio, arms full of blueprints, heading towards the library door. When they pause right before it, the doctor remembers himself and leaps into action yet again, tugging on the door handle to open it for the Countess—only the door proves too heavy and Nadia has to help him anyway. Lucio, blinking rapidly as if coming out of a daydream, whirls on them just as they’re about to step out and you hear his incessant whine start up once more.

“Noddy, wait! What am I supposed to _do_?”

Now was your chance—you needed to grab the deck before anyone realized it’d been left there. As silently as possible, you drift to the center table, your cloak wrapped about you tightly. The Count’s and Countess’ voices grow louder as you move closer, but no one should see or sense anything amiss. 

Soon your fingers are mere inches away from the tarot deck and this close you can't help but be enraptured by the beautifully intricate cardbacks; by how the gold-trimmed edge of each card glimmers softly in the evening light of the library. Asra, he must have taken great care of these. Your chest feels tight with guilt and there’s a bit of pain in your head, but it is nothing compared to earlier. You concentrate on magicking the little deck to be as invisible as your body is right now.

Power pools into your fingertips… _Almost, almost…_

“I don’t know, Lucio. Have you tried saying please and thank you?”

“ _Noddy._ This is _serious.”_

“As am I.”

Julian’s voice drifts in between them, “Sir, might I suggest… if _hypothetically_ there _is_ a ghost, as you say, you could try, you know… talking to it? Not just about your shoes,” Julian’s nervous laughter is apprehensive and loud and the sound almost causes you to muck up your spell, “but also about why it’s there in the first place.”

“See, now you've got a doctor’s recommendation, Lucio. With all that resolved, I must tend to many more things tonight. Come along, Doctor.”

“Ah, yes ma’am!”

“Ah-hah. Yeah, great idea.” Lucio calls after them and you hear their footsteps fading off. The bravado in his voice hardly masked his irritation. “I’ll take care of it. Yeeeeup… I’ve... got it.”

A long-suffering groan pierces the room as you successfully cloak the little deck and lift it into the air. Finally, it was perfect for traveling the palace halls. Internally celebrating, you turn around to eyeball Lucio’s back, his form quivering as he watches the heavy library doors shut with a resonant _clunk._ You’re alone with him, again, and he’s been left with only you in his shadow. The dust in the library settles. You can nearly hear it.

“They’re right, you know.” Your quiet voice surprises even you, and you mentally slap yourself for bothering to speak. The Count’s simmering anger is quickly replaced with alarm, then outrage. Eyes aflame, he searches for your presence, his mouth already half-open, ready to spew a litany of profanities at you. Watching his mercurial reactions, you hastily add, “I wouldn’t mind talking this out.”

“You were here the whole time?! They all think I’m a joke. All because of you!” Lucio paces as he speaks, frustration building until he grabs a stray book and chucks it across the room with a loud snarl. It hits a vase and you flinch at the shrieking sound of breaking glass. So much for talking.

Lucio’s anger ignites yours. That poor book. “I don’t think I had a hand in that particular sentiment of theirs.”

Your words seem to strike a chord in the incensed man and he whirls around, a blur of white and black and red and gold. For a moment you think he can see you, his furious eyes landing on the space just a bit to your right. Twice he’s done that uncanny little thing, leading you to vaguely believe he’s got some sixth sense for where you are. You pointedly ignore how that notion makes your head fuzzy. He’s still hopping mad, at any rate.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you? _Stupid_ ,” Lucio’s golden claws stretch menacingly before him, quivering with fury—as if he very sorely wants to throttle you, “ _f_ _ucking ghost.”_

Your laughter echoes like a song in the empty library. “Hmn, yes, insult me more, Count. You’re really racking up the brownie points.”

“Shut up! I’m thinking.”

“Oh? Is it your first time? Don’t hurt yourself.”

“ _UGH!!_ Why can’t I just kill you, damnit!”

Boldly, (you weren’t sure, but something about being around the bratty Count made you a touch more daring than you ever desired to be) you lower your cloak. Your dark visage immediately catches his attention. Lucio backs away, eyes wide, chin jutted out as if to challenge you. Your red eyes glow particularly brightly in the dark of the library, and you can’t help the desire to step closer when the Count steps away.

Something about this, about being so untouchable to him, like an itch he can’t quite scratch. You realize what it is, that look in his eye spelling it out for you—you feel _in control._ Count Lucio was at your mercy.

It’s heady. You can’t deny it. Maybe this was why you’d taken a shine to haunting him, specifically. “Come now, surely a little bit of your blood isn’t _so_ bad, Lucio. Surely it’s worth preserving the sanctity of your masquerade—oh, and your wardrobe.”

He throws you his best scowl, before glaring down at some indiscernible spot on the flooring, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. The Count sighs, looks so put off that you almost feel a little bad for him yet again, until he affixes himself with that overdone persona once more. Snarl in place, he approaches you.

“Of course I have to sacrifice my own _blood_ for everyone else’s benefit. But that’s how it’s always been isn’t it?” He sounds bitter, like an overworked maid, “I’m the only one that does anything around here in the first place! Now I’ll be saving the whole masquerade from being torn apart and no one will even know it was me.”

Lucio breathes deeply, in an apparent attempt to calm himself, smooths back his hair and smiles wryly. He places a single golden claw on his palm, then begins digging into his flesh. Silver eyes look up at you, rife with impatience and wounded pride. “Come on, what’s the hold up? Get this weird shit over with already!”

With a worried gasp, you rush forward, hands outstretched to yank the Count’s sharp hand away from his decidedly softer one. He yelps at your sudden movement. You manage to jostle his aim for a moment before your hand slips through his and, bending at the waist, you immediately examine his palm. His pale skin is red with irritation, but ultimately unhurt. Your sigh of relief floats between the two of you.

Lucio looks at you as if you’d grown another head, his brows pinched together, eyes blown wide. Gone is his awful, self-important facade—until it’s back. He wrinkles his nose.

“Did you just touch me?! Eugh!”

Embarrassment clouds your head and you back away from him, your throat suddenly tight. Soon this would be over and you wouldn’t have to suffer his company ever again. The thought soothes your sore feelings just a smidge. “...You’re an idiot.”

Lucio’s eye twitches. “Excuse me, I’ll have you know that I’m… _very_ smart! And I'm doing what you _want_ , ghost, you should be com-pli-men-ted!”

Patience wearing thin, you run a hand over your face and level your tone. “I need to _prepare_. When I use your blood I’ll need to catch it on… something.” The tarot deck floats unseen next to you.

“Riiight. ...Not creepy at all.” Lucio’s complexion looks nearly green. He eyes you suspiciously, “What do you even need it for?”

“That’s uhm, personal.”

He grimaces. “What are you, obsessed with me? Not that I can blame you, heh. I mean, who isn’t?” Lucio runs his metallic hand over his torso, his fingers clinking softly against the medals on his abdomen. A confident smile graces his lips momentarily before he shoots you a decidedly cautious and disgusted look, “Is this some freaky eternal union type thing?”

Sputtering, you back away from him even further. “ _What?_ No. You’re kidding. I’m—I don’t even _like_ you, Lucio.” Heat builds in your ears; you’re looking anywhere but at him.

“Hah! Very funny. Everyone loves me.” His silver eyes remain critical of you, and you want to squirm away from the smirk on his lips. “What will you do? Follow me around forever, admiring how handsome I am?”

That one makes you laugh, despite your embarrassment. Lucio purses his lips. Surprisingly, he doesn’t look too upset at your mirth. You clear your throat. “No, thankfully. Anyway, I’ll meet you tonight. In your quarters. Make sure you’re not entertaining any, uh… anyone else.”

“Ghost, you _have_ to know that this could never work out. Frankly, you look...like _that_ , and even if that weren’t the case, you’re not alive. We could never even have se—“

“ _Tonight_! In your bedroom. _Goodbye_ , Count.” Properly mortified, you cover your face and disappear from sight, already making a beeline for the library door. Lucio calls out after you, but you ignore him. There were preparations to do, and awful thoughts of the blonde idiot and his horrible smile were not going to help in the least.

“'Follow me around forever'… the audacity…” Floating down the hall, you mutter to yourself. “It's fine. Soon I’ll have him out of my hair.”

You couldn't have known how very wrong you were.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Apprentice and Lucio T-pose at each other to assert dominance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a ball writing this, but am I glad that the set-up for the first half of the story is absolutely complete. Here goes nothing, folks. Shit is gonna get rough.

Where you once had endless hours at your disposal, suddenly you have none. The sunset, the evening, and the looming night speed by as if in a race for tomorrow. The sky outside the palace windows changes colors so quickly that it's enough to give you vertigo while traversing the halls. You suppose this is how the living must feel everyday, swept up in all their moments and conversations. Time is precious to them, after all. 

After you’ve nicked candles and chalk from the supply closets you return to your bedroom. Your mind is busy painting the mental image of the Countess’ friend: Asra, that airy, distant magician that you seem to know from your past life. His white hair and soft smile are burnt into your mind’s eye. Yet no matter how many times you think of his face, nothing comes to you. 

The tarot deck you stole from him sits inconspicuously on the dresser by your bed. Earlier, you had carded through it carefully, each beautifully painted Arcana enchanting you as you did so. Some almost felt like they would hop off the cards and start speaking of their own accord. You drift closer to the dresser and magic the deck into the air, the gold-trimmed edges glinting in the bedroom’s torchlight. Guilt pierces your gut when the cards swivel aloft, alongside your candles and chalk. It didn’t sit well with you that you’d stolen something so obviously cherished by the magician, and that you were going to use it for something like this—something so selfish. 

“I’ll just return it afterwards.” No doubt Asra would notice it’s absence in due time. You only hope that when you do return the deck, he will deign to listen to what you have to say...

The distant gong of a clock marked the turn of the hour. You didn’t need to check the time to know it—the moment had come to pay a certain someone a visit. Nervousness slithers itself into your chest as you gather your wits and make for the Count’s bedroom.

Usually, at night, you tend to avoid his end of the hall entirely—for obvious reasons. Despite your efforts, you'd overhear conversation between the Count and his lovers anyway—all of them whispered nothings and empty promises. Entertaining someone for the night always seemed to be an extravagant and lengthy process for Lucio. It hadn’t taken you long to figure out that he might just prolong the activity simply to have the undivided attention. The longer someone endured basking in Lucio’s presence, the more the Count seemed to favor them, even though you’d often spy those same lovers slandering the man the very next day.

You couldn't understand the appeal of it, of that superficial affection. Sure, you couldn't recall ever having lovers, or trysts—you couldn't remember what it felt like to be hugged, even—but you think it must be far more satisfactory to lay with someone who held more of you than just your body.

At any rate, you’d made the walk to Lucio's bedroom plenty of times during the day, be it to eavesdrop, annoy the man, or both. Soon his door is before you and… had you ever noticed how beautifully intricate the woodwork on it was? You bend at the waist to inspect it carefully.

Your feeble attempt to stall falls to the wayside when you hear the Count's muffled voice from beyond the door.

“… ugh, come off already!”

There’s a fathomless pit of anxiety in your belly and you're not sure why. It wasn’t usually like this. Although, to be fair, you weren’t usually coming to _talk_ to the Count, much less perform a spell you had never tried before… with his blood... and a stolen tarot deck. 

“Yeah, the conditions aren’t quite the same, are they?” You chuckle nervously. Willing yourself to just get it over with, you slip through the door, cloaked items in tow. The sight that greets you is pleasant enough. 

Lucio, blonde hair all askew, sits at the foot of his massive and plush bed, furiously scrubbing candle wax off of a suede boot. He's dressed in a loose, cream-colored blouse, halfway unbuttoned, his bare chest barely concealed by the gauzy fabric. His black trousers hug his waist snugly, and your gaze drifts down the curve of his crossed thigh, over his calves and settles onto his bare feet. You smile, because as much as you dislike to admit it, he looks particularly... _cute_ without all the frills and finery of his usual attire. 

The Count’s left arm glows inconspicuously beneath his sleeve, and you can’t help but eye the soft white light emanating from it. Without the usual armor adorning the prosthetic, it thrums loudly with an undeniable magical power. It radiates in the air, so much so, that even you feel it from your spot by the door.

Since he's not quite noticed your entrance, you take the opportunity to look over Lucio's terribly preposterous bedroom. 

Over the three years you’d been stuck haunting his wing, you’d watched the once elegant and semi-acceptable decor in the master suite devolve into a combination of stuffy and mismatched items. It wasn’t that the Count’s furniture was unattractive, but that he had _too much_ of it. Finely crafted swords and blades from various parts of the world sat forgotten on artisan tables and beautiful furs lay buried underneath a stack of dusty commissioned self-portraits.

It was a mess and not being able to fix it always bothered the hell out of you.

"Ugh! Fuck it," Outright whining, the Count lets his ruined shoe fall to the shaggy rug below his feet with a soft _thunk._ His hands come up to cradle his head, flesh and metal fingers tugging at straw-colored strands. "My new order won't arrive for a _month!_ I'll need to commission new ones... _locally_."

The way Lucio shudders that last word makes you snort, and the man straightens up instantly when he hears you, gasping lowly before locking eyes with your crimson gaze. He immediately circumvents his surprise by attacking you with accusations.

"Oh yeah, that's _sooo_ funny, huh? Especially since you're the one who ruined them. Hilarious. Do you have _any_ idea how much these cost?"

You float closer, eyeing the shoe on the floor. It looked like brightly-colored refuse. "However much it was… well, it was too much. By the way, I'm surprised you didn't imprison the maids for not getting the wax off." 

The Count scratches at his chin, his nails making a small sandpaper noise against the short stubble there. "Hmph! I was going to, I just uhh, forgot. Woah! Wait, wait, wait— what are you doing?"

You ignore him, though the sight of him lifting his feet and hugging his legs in alarm is hilarious, and instead concentrate on your magic. It flutters about your feet like sparkling sand. Lucio's brows shoot up, awe inching its way onto his face as he peers over the edge of his bed. You notice his expression, and pride blooms in your chest. Deciding to make a show of it, you focus sharply on a corner of the rug. It's violently yanked a meter away from the two of you, taking the ghastly boot with it. The Count yelps, but he's also grinning madly at the display. 

"So you really are a magician then?" He's soon back to the edge of the bed, his bare feet touching the now exposed marble as he vaults off of it. Absently, you wonder if it were possible for him to sit still. Lucio props his hands on his hips, brow arched cooly, "I mean—That's nothing, heh. I _also_ know magic, actually."

_Hah!_ Amusement dances in your eyes, "Oh? You do?"

He preens, not unlike a proud parrot, "Didn’t I just say so? My magic is so strong, it'll make your little party tricks look like child’s play."

You so sorely want to laugh, but decide to play along, "I had _no_ idea I was in the presence of such a _master_. Undoubtedly you must already know what I intend to do with… these?"

Uncloaking your small bundle of items makes the Count breathe in sharply, his attention immediately drawn to the floating candles and chalk. To your utter delight, he closes in on them and waves his hand above and under each candle in bewilderment, "They're just… floating. What the fuck? How…?" Lucio mumbles softly, wonder painted on his features.

Your cheeks are warm. "Ahem… well, shouldn't you know, oh _great_ _magician?"_

He blinks rapidly, arms folding across his chest, "Duh, of course I do… That was a uh… a test."

Snickering, you float the candles down on the floor where the rug once was and settle them into a circle. Your hand swishes over each one and they light up as you go, tiny flames illuminating the floor with soft light. Lucio kneels down on one knee to gaze at them. He gestures towards the circle, frowning sourly at you, "This is for the eternal union thing, right?"

"Ugh, it's _not_ like that. But yes, this is for a spell. The one I need your blood for." You shoot him a furtive glance to make sure he hasn't already started stabbing himself again. Instead, Lucio has settled right outside of the candle circle, his legs crossed, looking simultaneously annoyed and intrigued. You float a piece of chalk right in front of his face and he rears away from it, then smacks it out of your magical hold. You hear it hit the other side of the room with a sharp _clink_. The two of you catch each other's unimpressed gaze. 

"What the hell? Don't just put things in my face."

"Why did you do that? I was only going to ask for help."

Lucio sneers, "What, is my own blood not enough anymore? Now you're ordering me around? That's rich, ghost, really, _truly."_

Maybe if you had a heavy enough object you could manage to drop it right above his head, knock him unconscious and finish the whole spell before he woke up. Instead of grabbing the nearest vase, you take on an innocent tone.

"No, I'm _not._ I just thought that, since you're a magician with such _renown_ , you could definitely draw the proper sigils for the spell." You float another piece of chalk to the Count. "Being a ghost doesn't leave room for much articulation, like drawing."

He grabs it, carefully plucking it from the air, much to your surprise. Regardless, he's still glaring at you, "Obviously I can, but why should I help you? I don't even want to _do_ this freaky shit."

You shrug, "It's fine. I'll just go then, and see you at the masquer—"

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll fuck up my party. I get it.” Lucio grumbles childishly, cutting you off. Muttering, he leans forward on all fours, entering the circle, despite his apparent indignation. His fingers poised to draw, he casts an annoyed look up at you and mumbles, "I… uh, might have forgotten this one."

Maybe it's the angle or the strange circumstance but the Count looking up at you like this makes _something_ foreign and tingly flutter in your chest _._ It takes you a moment to answer, but eventually you kneel across from him and point to two spots on the floor.

"Draw a line from here… to here."

He does so, lips puckered in concentration. You feel that if you had a pulse it would be going far too fast. "Now here. And here." You mumble.

"Tch, I knew that. Wh… where next?"

The two of you continue this way until the sigil is complete, Lucio insisting after every instruction that he definitely knew it after all. Once or twice his hair or sleeve would near a candle, and you'd put the candle out before he hit it. He didn't notice, or pretended not to.

The sigil is pretty, you decide, despite some of the more squiggly lines and curves. The Count’s done a fantastic job following instructions, and that was a feat in of itself. He sits in the center of the circle, elbow propped onto his knee as he admires his own handiwork. 

"It's perfect. Very professional," you commend him amusedly and Lucio blinks at you for a moment, until a tiny smile curls his lips upward. 

"It is?" 

He coughs, clearing his throat loudly. His smile spreads enormously and turns grimy with narcissism, " _Of course_ it is _._ I told you, I'm a natural at this magic stuff."

In lieu of responding you simply give him an overly eager hum of agreement and settle down outside of the circle of candles. Lucio watches you move, his brows knitting together. As if he suddenly remembered why he was doing this in the first place, he frowns pointedly at you, "What else? This is taking way too long and I'm missing out on my beauty sleep."

Ignoring him, you stretch your open palm out between the two of you. Asra's tarot deck snaps into view, hovering delicately above your palm. Lucio's eyes go wide and he leans forward, inspecting the deck, "Huh… I've seen those before. Why are you using them?"

"This is what I'll need to catch your blood on. So, if you could oblige me… Count. I'd appreciate it. Then your masquerade will be perfect. You have my word." 

The Count narrows his eyes at you suspiciously, "How do I know you're not lying? That last luncheon I heldended with pie all over my cape. And the band left early because _someone_ made all of the instruments sound like frog croaks."

You can't help but chuckle. That had been hilarious. "It's not good magical karma to shirk out on these types of deals. If I don't follow through, well… _something_ will make sure I pay. The universe has a way of balancing things out."

"Oh…" Lucio's gaze drifts towards the floor as you speak, his brows furrowed. Is he sweating? He seems lost in thought and you decide not to interrupt such a rare occurrence. As you wait, you can't help but… _look_ at him. The candlelight illuminates the sharp angles of his face, but it also softens how harsh he usually appears. His golden hair looks almost pink instead, and those usually severe silver eyes sparkle like rosé. His skin looks so smooth, touchable, and you vaguely wonder how he keeps from getting wrinkles, what with all his sneering and pouting and looks of contempt. Maybe he traded his arm for eternal youth.

Forcing yourself to stop staring at the peachy skin of his neck, you hum, eyeing the floating deck of cards pointedly. “I promise, I can't weasel my way out of this. I won’t mess up a single thing your whole birthday, alright?" 

The Count sighs, then presses his lips together in a thin line, nose wrinkling with annoyance. He begins rummaging about in his trouser pocket, "You better not, _ghost_ ," Out comes an old, military grade switchblade, and Lucio expertly unsheathes the knife. He stretches his flesh palm before you, the gleaming blade poised against his palm. He positions his hands right above the tarot deck, then affixes you with an intense glare. You blink in surprise. "Because if you do, I'll make sure to pay you back before _anyone_ _else_ bothers to."

A little shocked, you nod imperceptibly in agreement. Lucio rebukes you for it, his voice venomous and thick with his own ego, "Uh-uh-uh. Say, _'Yes, my Count.'_ "

“...Seriously?” 

He nods, brow raised, awful grin in place. “Say it.”

You want to say _anything_ but that. And yet now, with your goal so very, _very_ close… you oblige him.

"...Yes… my Count."

_Ugh_. At the very least this would be the last time you ever speak to him.

Satisfied, Lucio slices the knife across his hand with no hesitation and you gasp despite yourself. His blood beads at the wound, welling up until it gushes and runs down the curve of his palm. Red dribbles down his fingers, painstakingly slow, and he huffs impatiently, wiping the blood off his knife on his trousers before pocketing it. 

Anxiously, you draw every bit of available magic out of the whole of your being. Alive or not, your magic was tangible, it had presence in the world. Tendrils of your power swarm across the floor, around the cards, around the Count, around you. 

Ready.

Finally, a drop of the Count's blood splashes onto the topmost card of Asra's deck. You close your eyes.

The spell is seared into your eyelids; you see it clearly. The words come easy, but you barely hear yourself recite them. Your voice is perfume, curling about the room, soaking itself into the Count's fine curtains and silken bedsheets.

There's another bell chime somewhere in between your ears. 

"Uhh… that was… anticlimactic. So are we done here?"

Lucio's confused voice prompts you to open your eyes and slowly drag your gaze down, to your hands.

They're dripping ink. Slimy, shiny charcoal.

_No_.

"No…" But you had memorized the spell… There was no way you could have messed up a single phrase. Were you not strong enough? Despair unravels in your heart. This couldn't have been for nothing. You squeeze your eyes shut. No, you must try again. You weren't allowed to fail this one _simple_ —

"What do you mean, 'No'? That was our deal—whoa, woah! What's that? What's happening?"

Lucio's voice is filled with panic, demanding your attention. When you try to look at him you find that you _can't._ There's a blindingly bright light obscuring your vision. It takes you a moment to figure out that it's coming from your body.

The brightness intensifies until it scorches your eyes, and they're forced shut again. Tears well and roll down your cheeks. Sharp, needle-like prickling inches its way across your amorphous skin and you can't help but cry out in alarm.

Everything stops all at once—the tingling, the intense light, and you feel your magic diffuse back into the well inside of you. It quiet for a moment until the Count exhales loudly, the sound piercing the air. You open your eyes.

The first thing you see is Lucio's pale face and wide pupils. He's pressed back against the foot of his bed, his shaky, bloody palm flat against his bare chest. He looks at you as if you'd grown another head.

"What… the _fuck_ ," He mumbles, "You..."

His words barely reach your ears. Your gaze drops from his shaken expression and down to your trembling hands.

They're _your_ hands this time _._ Fleshy, human hands—or at least the image of them. Immediately, you scan the rest of your body. Soft looking robes adorn your new visage, modest but unique—just your taste. Unfortunately, you don't recognize them, but you _know_ they belong to you. Euphoria fizzles inside of your throat and it makes you bark out a laugh of joyful disbelief.

"I'm me," you whisper, and swivel your watery gaze back towards the Count before you, "I look like myself!"

Lucio only gapes, looking you up and down sharply. A beat passes before he shuts his mouth with a dull clack of his teeth. His silver eyes narrow at you.

"You mean to tell me," he says, his voice building in volume and anger simultaneously. Lucio brandishes his still bleeding palm right in your face, and you flinch away a little, "that I sacrificed my own _blood_ just so you could stop being a gross ass slime ghost?!"

His insult does nothing to dampen your spirits, but the sight of his blood does. Your own hands (human hands! You don’t even believe it!) jolt towards his injured palm, cradling it lightly in your still barely-present touch. Lucio almost pulls away in surprise, but your words appear to stop him.

"Sorry, I forgot you're still bleeding," Magic flows freely from your hands—the sweet, healing kind that you like most—and dances along Lucio’s palm. He inhales sharply, child-like fascination smoothing away his irritated expression. Soon enough the awful gash knits back together, and leaves his hand smooth as silk, "There. Feel better now?"

Lucio yanks his hand back as soon as your magic leaves it, and rubs his metal fingers over the healed skin. He flexes his fingers, as if the action would make the tear return in full. When it doesn't, he levels his disbelieving gaze back at you, "That felt… weird. Ticklish."

"Yes, ah… the books I've read _do_ say healing magic is quite ticklish. You'd know, of course, oh _master_ magician." Amusement passes over your face and you stifle a laugh, but it must be far more noticeable now in your human form, since the Count scrunches his brows together and scowls at you indignantly.

"Sh-shut up! It's still _fucked_ that you made me _cut_ myself for some weird ritual that makes you… less ugly."

You roll your eyes, "Good to know I'm not so… what was the word you used? _Hideous?"_ You shrug and raise your brow at him, "Can you blame me? Wouldn't you do the same in my position?"

It was likely easier to appeal to the man's vanity than explain that you had a serious case of afterlife amnesia. Besides, you'd be leaving his company soon enough—there was no need to reveal more than you already had about yourself. 

Surprisingly, the Count seems to consider the validity of your reasoning, rubbing his chin in between his thumb and forefinger. He's still covered in blood and looks downright silly, though the messiness doesn't seem to bother him in the slightest. Finally, he rolls his eyes and smirks at you—you can hardly suppress your own smile when he speaks, "Fine, I'll give you that. I'd have done it better though! I'd probably just take my blood without asking."

You feign shock and gasp dramatically, "What? How awful! That's called assault, Lucio."

He chortles, an undignified snort leaving his throat. The sound makes you chuckle with him, "So what? Are they going to kill a ghost?"

"Isn't that what you were going to do?" You cough to mask your snickering, but it's impossible not to laugh. Lucio pouts at you, silver eyes narrowing.

"...I'd have found a way! If only Asra wasn't being… Asra," his gaze turns bitter and distant, staring at the still flickering candles surrounding him on the floor, "He's always been like that, the little shit.”

Asra's name makes you blink, puncturing the sweet mood that had settled about you. You frown and look down at the bloodied tarot deck, "I, uhm, I'll be on my way. Need to hold up my end of the bargain."

Lucio's attention returns to you and he looks vaguely alarmed, "Uh... yeah. Yeah, you do that. And take all of this," he gestures towards the melting candles and chalk on the floor, his nose wrinkling, "with you."

Nodding, you stand to do so, but pause and face the Count once more, "Before I leave… Lucio… do you, uh…" Nervousness builds in your stomach. Why was this so difficult? 

He frowns, brow raised, "Do I what?"

You clear your throat and point towards your face. Desperation bleeds into your voice as you speak, "You mentioned that I'm less ugly, but do you recognize me? At all? ...Maybe?"

The question seems to take him by surprise. A moment passes, something untellable flickers in his eyes, and he scoffs, "Tch, no. You look like… like anyone. No one _I'd_ associate with, that's for sure," Lucio eyes your clothes, and you follow his gaze. He mutters, "Seriously, what are you wearing?"

Huffing, you shake your head. It was worth a try. You turn from his criticizing stare and get to work putting out the candles, your magic practically jumping to the task. They rise from the floor a second later, floating in your magical hold.

However, Lucio speaks again, much more softly, and what he says stuns you so much that the candles clatter to the floor.

"Do you want a mirror… or something?" He's absently scratching at the gold of his prosthetic arm, his nails making a tiny squeaking noise against the metal.

Some of your shock must show on your face because the Count scowls in annoyance, shaking his head vehemently, " _Urgh,_ forget it! I was only asking because you said I had killed you and if I met the guy that killed me and he couldn't remember killing _me_ I'd be pretty fucking _pissed—"_

"Do you have one?"

"…Have what? A mirror?"

"Yes."

Lucio looks at you incredulously, a slow grin tugging the corners of his lips upwards, "What kind of question is that?" 

Suddenly, he hops up onto his feet, stepping over your toppled candles and strolling proudly towards the left wall of his gigantic bedroom. You follow him, wide eyes searching the Count's broad back for an answer as to why he was being so accommodating. When it offers nothing but the pleasant view, your thoughts turn to what your face must look like instead.

You hardly have time to consider it when Lucio stops, and you halt right next to him. You'd never noticed it before, but the entire wall on this end of the bedroom is covered by a beautifully woven tapestry—it's colored red and gold, of course, but unlike Lucio's other decor, the fabric looks gorgeous and complements the man entirely.

You only look away when you notice a thick gold rope twined in Lucio's metallic hand. With a flourish he yanks it down, pulling the tapestry back like a curtain, revealing that the wall isn't a wall at all, but an enormous floor to ceiling mirror.

"Ta-da." He grins at his own handsome reflection, "Gorgeous, right? I mean me, not the mirror. The mirror is nice, I guess," Your silence causes him to look at you, "Ghost…?"

You glide forwards slowly, closer to your reflection. Your eyes widen, your unchanged vibrant red sclera illuminating the planes of your face. You scan your hair, your cheeks, your nose and lips and chin. Finally, you're you. You stare hard. Lucio might have said something to you but you can hardly process it. You inspect yourself so much that you might burn the mirror with your unflinching gaze.

Fear twinges in your chest. You look and look. You find that you're not as unattractive as the Count makes you out to be. Your face is sweet like honey, your lips are smooth and quaint. There's an ordinary attractiveness to your appearance. But it doesn't matter, it doesn't make a difference because disappointment and dread has balled up in your throat like a paperweight.

"Helloooo? Ghost?"

The person looking back at you is you. And you have no idea who that person is.

"Wow, and I thought _I_ was obsessed with myself," Lucio's voice finally breaks through your thoughts, and you snap your panicked gaze at him. He raises a brow, "What? What is it? ...Oh come on, you're not _that_ ugly. In comparison to _me,_ yes, obviously, but for a mere commoner like yourself—"

Tears sting your eyes and roll down your cheeks. Lucio has enough tact to notice your distress, and he trails off, watching you, his brows knitted. Hopelessness swirls like a hurricane in your chest.

"I don't know..." your voice struggles, croaking roughly, "I can't recognize myself, I—" 

The Count looks bewildered, absolutely confused, and it strikes you that you've said far too much, become far too emotional and in front of the person who is least likely to offer you any sympathy. Self-consciousness heats your ears. You need to leave. Now.

Your magic snaps to attention as soon as you think it, and the once forgotten candles, the tarot deck, and even the stubs of chalk zoom into the air with unprecedented quickness. Lucio yelps, eyeing the floating items for a moment before glancing back at your form—except you're already moving past him, in a rush for his bedroom door.

Willing away the wobbliness of your voice, you speak quickly as you leave, "Thank you, Count, for the mirror, and for holding up your end. I'll be off now."

"Hold on, that's it? Aren't you going to clean up the freaky drawing? Hey! Ghost, you better not fuck up my party or I really will find a way to—" Lucio's voices fades off. You're already halfway down the hall, sighing in relief to finally be away from his scrutiny, so you can calm down.

"It's fine, it's alright." You float towards your room. The halls are deserted at this hour, so you don't make an effort to cloak yourself or the floating items in your wake. You’re too wrapped up in your racing thoughts to bother anyway, "Tomorrow I'll approach Asra, a-and... maybe he will recognize—Agh!"

Your body halts, against your will. The items you carried in your magical hold clatter to the floor loudly. Alarm and fear squeeze your chest when you can't move forward any further—it was as if someone had wrapped a rope around your waist, and was tugging, tugging you backwards. 

It was as if you were on a leash.

"Wh-what is…?"

You double over and strain against the invisible force. Asra's tarot cards greet you, splayed haphazardly over the stone beneath your feet. With a frustrated roar, you manage to budge forwards just an inch, but you instantly regret it, because a fiery pain immediately engulfs your entire being. It brings you to your knees, stuns you into silent agony.

You hear a muffled thud behind you, followed by a pained shout. There was no one else it could be; that was the Count. 

Panting, you stand and step backwards. The mysterious cord wound about your waist seems to go slack and, what's more, is that the pain wracking your body vanished as soon as it did.

"Oh… oh no."

There are one, two, three stomps before Lucio's bedroom door is flung open. You hear the wood nearly crack when it's slammed against the stone wall.

You have just enough time to turn around to see him searching left and right wildly, until he spots you. He rushes towards you, a blur of furious silver eyes and messy blonde hair. There's a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and you note that his own chest is rising and falling rapidly.

"I knew it," Lucio spits venomously, then points a finger inches from your translucent face. You notice that it's still dirty with dried blood, "what the _hell_ did you just do to me?"

You shake your head, "Nothing! I didn't—"

"You know _what?_ I don't even want to know. Undo it. _NOW_ , ghost!" There's a wild look in his eyes, manic, like some cornered animal. Trembling, you raise both of your hands up to him in surrender.

"Count, I swear, I'm just as scared as—"

"I said _fix it_!" His voice thunders around you dangerously and you flinch away from him, "Now!"

As difficult as it was, you resolve to calm down. Lucio wasn't listening, unsurprisingly, and you needed to figure out exactly what was happening. Ignoring the enraged Count, you shut your eyes and search for your magic. It's soft aura had never failed to center you before, especially when you were far from centered. When you find it, ready and pliable, something about it feels… different. Wrong, like a leak in a boat—except it also felt _good._ As if the water gushing through that leak was excess magic, cool, crisp and delightfully pooling with your own. The emotion is peculiar, and you reach out a hand to touch that solid stream of energy.

A silken cord slides into your grasp. Your eyes fly open when it _stays_ in your grasp, rather than fall through your hand.

“I…”

“The hell is this…!?” Lucio staggers back, alarmed. He tentatively reaches for a silvery blue cord that disappears neatly into his chest. The same cord that is firmly in your hand.

His hand passes through it. He tries again, with more fervor. And again. And again. Soon he’s uselessly swatting at the trickle of magic, growling lowly in frustration every time it slinks through his fingers.

A minute ticks by where you’re simply transfixed by the feeling of this little rope against your fingers. It’s so pretty, and feels so cold and soft against your hand. It casts an icy, sky blue glow, and thrums almost happily against your palm. Satin must feel this way, water must. Snow must as well, you think. Fascinated, you coil the ribbon of magic around your hand and slowly, gently you pull.

The Count, who had been obscenely trying to get your attention via cursing and snarling at you, suddenly shuts up entirely and stumbles forward clumsily. He steadies himself right in front of you, his stricken face mere inches from your ephemeral one. He looks down at the thread wrapped around his heart, and then at you.

It’s quiet. You back away from him a smidge, though he can do nothing to harm you.

“...Lucio, I know you’re not going to believe me,” He is wordless, but his face is flushed a furious red—there’s nothing but the sound of his gnashing teeth and his heavy panting. “but I did _not_ do this on purpose. I have no idea what this even is!” 

“Get rid of it,” he sounds calm, and it’s more alarming than when he was yelling at you.

“I will," you nod feverishly, “...just as soon as I find out how. Really, Lucio, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for this—“

“...You don’t know how.” Lucio repeats, you see his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“No. L-like I said this is weird for me too, I can’t explain—”

“No, ghost, that’s where I call _bullshit_. You did this, didn’t you? This is all part of some sick joke, isn’t it? Isn’t it?!” He roars, the awful sound piercing your ears. You cry out as the Count tries to grab you, even though his hands pass through your body uselessly. He keeps trying, though, to shake you or throttle you, you’re not sure, but for once you’re glad that you’re unable to be touched. You shakily push your hands forward, against his chest, but your palms pass through him uselessly as well.

“Please, Lucio, stop! I didn’t—”

“—and all for what? Because I killed you? Is this some kind of lame ass justice? Revenge? Hah!” He’s given up on grabbing you, and begins pacing up and down the hall, boiling rage steaming from his ears, “Newsflash, kid! I’ve killed lots of people. You’re not special. But, _ohhh_ , if I could have another crack at murdering you I’d sure as hell remember it this time around, I’d—”

In your panic, you’re struck with an idea. The magical thread connecting you to Lucio thrums with your intentions before you even realize it, and you rub its smooth surface, before yanking on the cord sharply, pulling it taught. As expected, Lucio is jerked forward roughly. He gasps in pain, shuts up, and falls onto his knees. You loom over him, breathing heavily, your glare glowing a furious red in the dark of the hallway.

The Count attempts to get up right away, but you hold fast to the silvery rope, causing him to pivot and fall onto his ass. Any trace of anger on his face is gone, those wide eyes slick with shock as he looks up at you. For the first time today, you think he’s actually seeing you.

Maybe that was just wishful thinking, on your behalf. You keep giving the man the benefit of the doubt, and though you think it’s a noble thing to do so, this feeling of utter disappointment when he eventually lets you down is like lead in your stomach.

“Ghost—” Lucio begins, voice strained as he watches the ribbon grow ever tighter. He grunts, opens his mouth to keep speaking, but you are tired of hearing him.

“You think I’d really bind myself to you _intentionally?_ ” The thread in your hand thrums softly as you wrap it around your knuckles.

“As if suffering your awful presence for the last _three years_ wasn’t enough? _I don’t want this_ ,” you speak slowly, like you’re scolding a toddler. As you drift closer, Lucio crawls backwards, but your fist is clenched tight around the ribbon, and it’s holding him in place. He looks like he’s been slapped, rooted to the spot. Your voice drips with resentment as you continue, “If I wanted revenge, justice—wouldn’t I have murdered you by now? _Three years_ I’ve been stuck here. Don’t you think that in all that time I could have plunged a knife into your chest while you slept? Slipped poison into your dinner? Pushed you down the ballroom steps?”

The Count doesn’t answer, his mouth opening and closing shut wordlessly. You run a hand over your face, sigh shakily, and will yourself to calm down. The ribbon drops from your hand.

Lucio watches the blue thread pool neatly at his feet. You watch it too, wryly marveling at how pretty it is, at how much you want to pick it back up, because it’s the first physical object you’ve ever truly felt. Heat stings your eyes and it’s like a dam has broken because you go on speaking, despite the niggling feeling in your chest telling you to shut up.

“All I ever did was _bother_ you, because I was alone. And, now that I’m being _honest_? I don't even know if you killed me or not. Maybe you did. I _wouldn’t_ know because I don’t fucking _remember._ All I wanted this _stupid_ deal for was to see my face, my real face. To see if I could recognize myself… I just wanted to know who I am. To know if _anyone_ knows who I am, but I don’t! And you don’t, and now there’s _this_ and you’re being a huge _dick_ like always—”

Your voice cracks. You finally silence yourself and drift away from the man prone on the floor before you. That was more truth than you had ever intended to tell him. It wasn’t supposed to be like this; you were supposed to never have to deal with him again. This was the exact opposite of that! And now you’re doing precisely what you were afraid you would do: be entirely too honest about yourself—about your feelings.

It’s quiet for a bit. Lucio sits up, eyes coursing up and down your wavering form—he looks nonplussed.

Disappointment and shame creep into your chest like ivy. You’d likely find more compassion spilling your heart out to a rock. Refusing to look at him a moment longer, you spin around and face the empty hall, forcing your voice to be firm and not shaky.

“...I’m not staying stuck on a leash with you. So don’t worry at all _, Count._ I’ll fix it. _”_

The magic that shackles the two of you together goes taught at around ten wide paces. It’s enough, you find, for you to traverse back to where you’d fallen earlier. Slowly, you gather Asra’s tarot cards. Your magic practically leaps to the task, twirling the cards into the air until the deck is back to rights. You glance it over, inspecting the edges to make sure none were bent or torn in the commotion. Nothing is amiss, except the drop of splattered blood on the top of the deck. Frowning, you make a note to find something to clean it off with later. The deck glides into the air, and soon enough the candles and chalk join it.

All too soon the situation catches up to you. Anxiety inches along the edges of your mind.

_What am I supposed to do?_

You’re not sure where you had gone wrong—the spell was recited perfectly, the entire process completed to the letter. You’re sure, no, you’re _positive_ that there was no mention of something like _this_ occurring in the spellbook.

_There wasn’t… right?_

When you turn back to face the Count he’s standing, dusting himself off. You watch him as he smooths back his hair with his flesh hand, and clears his throat. He isn’t looking at you at all, but rather staring at the high walls of the hallway.

“What, uh…” he begins, but the words seem to escape him. He huffs and crosses his arms, a minuscule flush peppering his cheeks, “What do you need? To fix it?”

_Pardon?_

“Uh... what?”

Lucio scowls, gesturing wildly at the glimmering rope leading from your body to his, “The stupid magic thing!? What do you need? To fix it??”

You look at him like he’s grown another head. Lucio grumbles and throws his arms up into the air impatiently, “Okay, stop looking at me like that. So you didn’t kill me. Big deal. That’s probably a mistake on your part. _I’d_ have killed me.”

Your look of incredulousness only grows, except now your eye is twitching.

“The point is,” Lucio waves his hand in the air, and rolls his eyes. He’s not looking at you again, “even if it wasn’t… on purpose. You’re the only one who can… fix it.So… _sorry,_ or whatever _.”_

Your jaw drops. The Count doesn’t give you even a moment to reply. His voice grows loud, as if to blot out what he just said, “Anyway! What do you need to figure this shit out? I want this thing _gone_ before the masquerade rolls around.”

Recovering from your shock, you flash him an unimpressed look and float closer, until you’re at his side. 

Even if his reasoning is selfish, even if he just wants to be rid of you for his party, and even if he’s not exactly the best person to be in this situation with—at the very least he apologized… sort of. And he was offering to help.

It wasn’t as if you were in any position to _refuse_ the help.

“Is it too late to murder you now? Might just be an easier solution for _me._ ”

Lucio snorts, then opens his bedroom door for you, “You sure as hell can _try._ ”


End file.
